


Eclipse

by starstag



Series: Out of an Empty Sky [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Tender - Freeform, could be fitzjames/crozier i guess, hopeful, kinda sad im not gonna lie, takes place in ep 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 23:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstag/pseuds/starstag
Summary: An ailing James finally has time to think a lot of things over. Of course, Crozier is right there with him.





	Eclipse

The rusting of canvas cloth was not a particularly foreign sound to James. It sounded almost like water slapping the sides of the ship and in the darkness he could pretend it was. Unlike the steady grind of stone, the crunch and clatter underfoot, the low growl of the sledges as they groaned along, he could lose himself in this noise. The stiff flapping was constant, backed by the heaving of the wind. The Arctic night was uneasy, and he was just as restless. All the same, the wind was more soothing than bland bright sun and rocks falling over one another, over and over until his head was fit to burst. No, the wind he could bear to listen to.

Even so, his body didn’t want to be awake. The hazy unsteadiness of weariness clung to every thought and every small movement, when he even dared to shift at all.The black bruises splattered across his body and the gaping hole in his chest protested at every motion and he largely remained perfectly still. Despite his exhaustion, the bliss of sleep wouldn’t come. Perhaps it was the delirium, or the pain and discomfort, or the incessant sound of the wind, but when he closed his eyes he resolutely remained awake. 

During the brief moments when they were open, wavering orange light illuminated a depressing scene: dirty blankets, a scuffed chair, worn canvas black with night flapping over his head. It was too dark to make out the details of the weave, but he could imagine it: rough and heavy, his blankets only marginally softer. 

Canvas of sails that had once carried their strong ships through icy waters now cocooned him, warding off the cold night as best it could. It was a sight familiar enough, painfully so, more familiar than he’d ever though he’d be with such a structure. It was home now, almost, as much sun-faded canvas and weathered longboats could be. Strange, he thought that even that was comforting. At least they still had the sledges, at least they still had the tents. At least they were still alive. It wasn’t home, it seemed perverted to even think of it that way. His heart still ached for the Erebus at every turn, and she had begun to feel like more of a home than a distant memory of some vague house back in England. 

A numbness filled his limbs, the weary hallucinations of movement came: motion like walking, leaning into a harness, then a strange swinging of his limbs, and then rocking, as if his cot tilted to and fro, fore and aft. He managed to let his eyes sink shut. The gentle sway the delirium brought was a soothing sensation more than anything else, despite its false nature. Between the water-like ripple and slap of the canvas and the wind and the tilting, swaying sensation, he felt almost as if he was back in his cabin on the Erebus, free from ice, or else on a different ship, heading for far green shores.

A small exhalation- he was not alone. Francis was watching. Of course he was. James could see him, just barley, between his interlaced eyelashes.   
The man was beside him, in reality and in the half-formed dream he had drifted into: he was seated in a chair, in his shirtsleeves, leaning over Francis, his presence warm and glowing.  
But it wasn’t right: there were cracks in the vision. The wind was too strong, the air too cold. The smell of death settled heavy over him: blood and sweat, harsh medicines and the faint scent of rot. 

Rocking, rocking, wind, cold: his vision wavered and rippled and revealed a truth far more sinister. No, he was not home on the Erebus or some other ship bound for England. Far from it.  
He could see it now, the raft of the Medusa as a mirror their own expedition, dissolving into chaos. Their own raft was the sledges, their wine; the leaded tins. 

He’d seen the painting: the dramatic muscular forms stretched in contorted repose, wind-whipped waves and a dawning light shining on the apex of the human pyramid, like so many rats clawing their way out of a flooded ditch.   
Yet there had been a strange beauty to the bodies, the lines of brawny health, the artful draping of cloth, even their pained and vexed expressions held a distant beauty. 

He didn’t feel at all like that, the grim and distant depiction so far from anything he had experienced. Maybe, in health, his life would have held more of a resemblance to the gruesome scene. he could see that, too: his own form, clad in blue and gold, grinning awfully as he clambered over other forms, less important, less dashing, less beautiful than he. 

Now? He was just a skeleton, red-ringed eyes, black and purple lips, just a sack of bones clad in a wasted hide impressed with blue bruises. There was sweat on his skin, sweat and blood, and his hair wasn’t a noble storm tossed mane, only a tangled nest of brittle grass. Had it always been, or had his vanity lied to tell him otherwise?   
The lies had bled into his bones, maybe poisoned him more than the lead had. Why did Francis insist on watching him, on sitting by his side as Bridgens saw to his wounds, on holding his hand- why? 

More than God loves them- he saw that in Francis now, he loved the men more than he loved the sea, more than he loved Sophia, more than life or happiness...more than God loved them.   
What did he have to show for his efforts? Men trapped and dead in a fire, an awful parody of a carnival. What did he have to show for his love? Not even strong enough to haul, not strong enough to save them.

He could remember Francis’s arms around his body, his hand gripping his own. There was once a time when he would have been revolted by the idea of being hauled off the ground, carried about, dragged in a sledge. But that time had long since passed, and now all he saw behind such actions was such tender care.

Soft light, creaking cot, bottles and bandages and Francis’s face gazing down at him: If not for the cold hissing wind and the brittle settled in his bones, it could have been a fever. He could be in his cabin, sick yet recovering. That, too, was a lie, and one to great to believe. 

As if Francis could hear his rambling thoughts, he groaned softly and raised one hand to rub wearily at his temples. “Rest, James. Please.” He looked so old, for a moment, so worn, all crumpled up in his exhaustion. Despite his clear exhaustion, he settled into a different position and resumed his vigil over James, watching him with a gentle sort of intensity.

James inclined his chin, just enough, just barley. Part of him still wanted to get up, to do something. He was a captain, after all. But he’s too tired to even begin to imagine just how he would go about such a thing. It is enough effort to speak to Francis.  
“I’m sorry.” He knows he shouldn’t be apologizing. “You don’t need to be here.” He does, and he knows it.

“No, no.” Concern creases Francis’s already lined forehead, his thumb traces a little circle on the back of James’s hand. “ I’m here, James. Here. I’ve a moment, and I’m not leaving. Bridgens will patch you up, just please. Rest.”

He relents, too exhausted to continue speaking, and content enough with Francis’s presence. It is almost enough to distract from the pain of his body falling apart around him. He doesn’t shut his eyes, though. He can’t bring himself to that.  
“Can you sleep?” Francis asks, delicate, cautious. 

He can hardly manage to smile, but settles for a weak sort of grin rather than answering. He knows what Francis is really asking. The sensation of rocking has faded, and in its place he only feels dreadfully hot, his joints ache with a vengeance. His shirt sticks to his skin, as if he had been drenched with water. His stomach yawns, an empty pit that only adds to his discomfort.  
All the men, he reminds himself, share his pain on that front.

His mind drifted back to the Medusa, and what they had turned to for survival- the flesh of their companions. But what if it was a gift? Offered up like the seal meat had been to poor, dead Irving? It almost brought a laugh to his cracked lips. Was this insanity? It certainly felt like it. He tried to imagine his own flesh, sliced up on a plate. 

“What were you thinking?” Francis asked, his expression a mix of worry and, perhaps, the tenderness of longing. His hand found James’s bare forearm, damp and clammy and feverish, but is touch is still so soft, so gentle, impossibly light over a broad patch of black bruise. His palm is warm against his skin, and dark thoughts flee his mind, however briefly, as his gaze drifts from Francis’s worn, chapped knuckles to his eyes, the creased lines of his face marking him with the look of greatest concern.

All at once, he found he did not want to die. Francis’s face, that astounding worry, the way he watched and waited, the way he looked on when he saw the bruises, the sores, the bleeding ring around the dark of his eyes: not disgust, not disappointment. He saw James for who he was, and there was only the most gentle sort of love. That care, more than the cot, more than the song of the wind, more than anything else, was what drew at last a sense of peace over his troubled imaginings.

He didn’t want to leave that behind, nor Le Vesconte, nor Bridgens. Was it vanity, wanting to stay? No, he thought, it didn’t feel quite the same as that. It wasn’t for him, he realized. It was for the men. For John. For Francis. 

“James?” His voice was softer as he repeated himself, and he sounded all the more worried.   
James shifted his head, locked his gaze with Francis. Somehow, he had the strength to nod, to turn the corners of his lips slightly upward. It must have looked grim, his split lips peeling back around yellowed teeth, stained dark with blood. If it troubled him, Francis did not let it show. He responded with a nod of his own, then nodded again, more vigorously, as he saw James struggling to smile. 

Their hands brushed, just the bare touch of Francis’s fingers over the back of his bony knuckles. It must have been rough and dry, but to James all it felt was warm and supple.

“What were you thinking of?” Worry flashed in Francis’s eyes.   
Somewhere, he found the strength grin in earnest, bleeding gums and all.   
“Nothing.” He whispered. “Nothing at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to finishing this bit! I've been working on it since like august, but haven't quite found the time to get it done until now. Sorta thinking of making this a fix-it au and maybe continuing this? Idk, we'll see. Hope you guys enjoy it!


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